In The Image Of The Lion Made

Good Luck Is A Giddy Maid, Fickle And Restless As A Fawn; She Smooths Your Hair; And Then The Jade Kisses You Quickly, And Is Gone.

Where Words Leave Off, Music Begins.

And Over The Pond Are Sailing Two Swans All White As Snow; Sweet Voices Mysteriously Wailing Pierce Through Me As Onward They Go. They Sail Along, And A Ringing Sweet Melody Rises On High; And When The Swans Begin Singing, They Presently Must Die.

Lyrical Poetry Is Much The Same An Every Age, As The Songs Of The Nightingales In Every Spring-time.

All Our Contemporary Philosophers Perhaps Without Knowing It Are Looking Through Eyeglasses That Baruch Spinoza Polished. Spinoza Was A Philosopher Who Earned His Livelihood By Grinding Lenses.